


love you in my own language

by penhaligon



Category: The Vagrant Trilogy - Peter Newman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penhaligon/pseuds/penhaligon
Summary: Harm lapses into thoughtful silence once more. His fingers move absently over your face, caressing, and you lean into his touch. “Have you always been unable to talk?”





	

_I just want to love you in my own language._  
\- alt-J, "3WW"

* * *

A daily routine takes shape while the house is being built. You do the heavy lifting and piece the house together, Harm sands wood and does other, smaller tasks within his capabilities, and Vesper does what she wills under watchful eyes and listening ears. A sword and a new fleet of goats provide further company.

Sometimes, others come. Often, it’s friends made on your travels, offering gifts or their help. They are gladly received. Occasionally, it’s representatives from the Shining City, trying to cajole you into working for them. They are sent away by your thunderous scowls and Harm’s placating words.

For the most part, however, it's just the three of you and your sword and the goats, visiting the hill daily as the house takes form. Soon it will be livable, and you can say goodbye to the Shining City for good.

Today, Vesper sleeps through the early afternoon, worn out by a rowdy morning of running from her parents with gleeful fervor. She is curled up on a blanket made by one of the Slake sisters, laid out on the grass near the east side of the house. Close by, the goat grazes with a few kids at her side. You know that the goat is watchful, that any sign of trouble will be heralded by shrill bleats, and you feel comfortable turning your back.

You also know, logically, that there is little chance of disturbance here. Nevertheless, the sword sleeps nearby, within easy reach. You wonder if there will ever be a time when you can relax enough to put it away, to keep your eyes from straying to Harm and Vesper every few seconds.

There are other reasons for your eyes to find Harm, too. He’s adjusting as well as can be expected, but it’s not always easy going. He often extends himself too much, overestimating what he can do with no sight left, and it takes trial and error to find ways around those limits. Sometimes, there are no ways around them, and while he bears up well, you can sense his frustration.

You keep a close watch on him, and today, when he overextends, you are there to catch him.

You move lightning quick, almost before his foot twists on supplies that you should have placed more carefully, that he doesn’t see and that his cane misses and that you can’t warn him about. Your arms wrap around him, keeping him from hitting the ground. It tugs at your injuries, rousing aches in your leg and side, but the wince is hidden in the flurry of movement.

“Oh,” says Harm, and there’s a little bit of giddiness in it at the sudden closeness, eclipsing the flush in his cheeks as he forces embarrassment down. One of the hands clinging to you at an awkward angle finds your shoulder and slides up, fingers trailing lightly over skin in a way that sends a warm chill up your back. It's abruptly flirtatious, and you know that he's trying to play off his discomfiture. “My hero.”

You wish that you were different. That the littlest things wouldn’t slice and resound like a Seraph sword, wouldn’t draw reactions out of you before you were aware enough to stop them. But a sudden tremor radiates from every fault line you have, the aftershock of a flinch and, on its heels, a desperate attempt at containment or at least unobtrusiveness.

If you were standing far enough away from Harm, you could hide it from him. Not well – he’s still able to read you as easily as he did with tainted eyes, one of the few skills he has left that remains unencumbered by the lack of eyesight. But he wouldn’t have the proof that he gets from this proximity, this closeness that leaves you too exposed, and you could brush aside the change in mood and Harm’s ability to read it.

But you’re holding him close, and Harm’s smile dissolves for a frown. “I’m sorry,” he says, and you want to tell him that he has nothing to apologize for. The hand on your shoulder moves up, caresses the back of your neck. “That was a poor choice of words, wasn’t it?”

You don’t give him any kind of gesture that could count for an answer. Instead, you gently set him down on his feet, making sure that he’s steady, and then, because you don’t want him to take it the wrong way, you pull him in close again. Arms wrapped around him loosely, head dipped down to rest against his. Apologetic.

Harm exhales slowly. He pulls back from your grip just enough to bring his hands up, searching for your face. When he finds it, a hand rests on either side, and he rubs his thumbs back and forth over stubble that you haven’t had the energy to do something about. “You can tell me about it, you know,” he says softly. “Whatever happened to you before we met.” He pauses, and you sense the tendency to ramble rising up in him. “You can write it down if you want. There's speech-synth tech, and if I go and bother someone in the Shining City about it then-”

You shake your head, not enough to dislodge Harm’s hands but enough to stop him in mid-sentence. He trails off, and a tiny furrow of consternation appears between his glassy eyes. If it weren’t for the vacant way he stares at a point on your cheek, it would be hard to tell that no sight remains. The surgeons in the Shining City had done an admirable job. But you don’t want anything else from that place, and you don’t want Harm there any more than he needs to be, either.

“You don’t... you don’t _have_ to tell me,” Harm says. “But you shouldn’t bottle things up if they keep hurting you. And I don’t want to keep reopening old wounds because I don’t know any better. Not that you should tell me because of _me_ ,” he adds, tensing. “I just want you to feel like you can tell me anything. Because you can. Even if it takes a little extra work now.”

You smile faintly, and he feels the change. He returns the expression, relaxing a little. “Can I at least ask a few questions?”

You hesitate. Think. The past is something that you want to leave buried along with your voice. You can hardly reconcile yourself now with the foolish boy that you once were, though only a few years separate you from him. The person with a voice is alien to you, and you don’t particularly want to dredge him up. But Harm asks out of concern, out of love, and you are very aware of how much you know about him. He’s opened himself up to you time and time again, and you haven’t done the same.

You also know that he’s been trying to steer attention away from his fall. There are some things that he doesn’t want to open up about, not yet. You know that you’ll need to nudge him into it eventually, like he’s trying to do to you, but for now, you let him be. It’s far more fresh for him than any of this is for you.

In answer, you nod and bend down, scooping up his dropped cane and handing it back to him. Then you take his arm and lead him to where Vesper sleeps, and the goat spares you a brief, baleful glance before returning attention to the grass. You pick Vesper up, resting her in the curve of one arm, and settle down against the wall of the house, next to where the sword sleeps. Vesper stirs only briefly, just enough to register that her father has picked her up and to curl into your hold, content, and fall back asleep. Harm settles near you, guided by your movements and close enough that he’s practically on top of you. He sets his cane down beside him and reaches out, a hand finding Vesper and stroking her cheek.

You grasp that hand and bring it to lightly touch Vesper’s head. Harm’s own head tilts a little as he attempts to understand what you’re trying to say, his brows furrowing in curiosity. You lift his hand again and guide it to your chest.

Harm narrows vacant eyes. He brings his other hand up to rest on your cheek again and pauses, thinking. “Vesper isn’t yours, is she?”

You shake your head.

The hand on your chest floats aimlessly down, back to its owner. “I haven’t forgotten that you two look a little different,” Harm says, and something like a smile takes up residence on his face, though it soon fades. “Did you know her parents?”

You nod.

“They’re dead.” It isn’t a question.

Another nod, as something catches in your chest and hitches your breath.

“I’m sorry,” Harm says regretfully. Condolences or apology for asking or maybe both, but your free hand finds the side of his neck and travels down, rubbing his shoulder, encouraging.

Harm doesn’t say anything further for a few moments. You can see the wheels turning in his mind. Even without the enhancement of tainted eyes, he’s sharp, good at picking up on things, and his next question doesn’t surprise you.

“Sir Phia and the others thought I was a squire,” he says slowly. “You were with another one and a knight. Was one of them Vesper’s parent?”

A nod.

“The knight?”

A shake of your head.

“The squire.” Harm takes a breath. “The one they mistook me for. He was Vesper’s father.”

You nod, trying to breathe past the ache in your chest, one that doesn’t come from your damaged lung.

Harm senses your distress, and his fingers run over your cheek soothingly. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head. You’ve kept these things close to your heart, unable to verbalize them and unwilling to try nonetheless, and you don’t think you’ve done yourself any favors with that. But Harm is patient and willing to listen to your silence, and he’s right. He usually is.

Quiet settles again, as Harm returns to thinking. “Vesper’s mother,” he says at last. “Was she also with the knights?”

A shake of your head.

“Someone you met along the way?”

A nod. It feels as if your damaged throat is freshly ruined, as ghostly memories ride up on shaky breath and scald it.

“And she and Vesper’s father, they died not long before we met.” Harm doesn’t need to phrase it as a question. It’s a simple calculation – Vesper had hardly been a year old at the time.

You nod anyway, letting out a slow exhale. It still hasn’t been that long, but it feels like an age. The conflicting sense of time is dizzying, as if it doesn’t know whether to go numb or still hurt, with you caught in the middle of its battle. You run the lightest of touches over Vesper's tiny shoulder with a thumb, grounding yourself.

Harm lapses into thoughtful silence once more. His fingers move absently over your face, caressing, and you lean into his touch. “Have you always been unable to talk?”

It’s almost uncanny. Harm had insisted that all of his insights had come from his tainted eyes, but you aren’t so sure. Or perhaps he’s just exceptionally good at reading you. You shake your head.

“Was it a recent development?”

You nod, and your free hand drops down to his, guiding it back to Vesper’s sleeping form. She twitches but doesn’t wake.

"When she was born?"

A shake of your head.

“When her parents died?”

A nod.

Harm’s face takes on lines of sorrow as he withdraws his hand from Vesper. “Suns,” he says softly, as if suspicions have been confirmed. “Is it... is it because of that? I’ve heard of people who stop talking after they experience something terrible.”

You wonder how long he’s been wondering about that and shake your head, even as something in you hesitates. You can manage a word or three every now and then, with effort and pain and the sword's power coiling in your throat, and there are other ways to talk. Your insistence that Harm not go looking for them in the Shining City is not entirely because of your dislike of the place.

Maybe you aren't ready for that. Not yet.

“It’s physical?”

You nod, because you wouldn't know how to explain  _not just that_ even if you could get it out, and Harm’s hand leaves your face, drifting down so that he can brush gentle fingers over your throat.

A shiver runs up your spine. You reach out for his free hand once more, leading it towards the sword that rests nearby, letting his fingers graze the sheath.

“Of course,” Harm breathes. “The knights sing. I never made the connection...” He frowns, and the expression approaches a scowl. His fingers leave your throat and return to your face. “Did it do that to you on purpose?”

You shake your head. The sword is dangerous and still a little alien to you, but you’ve never really thought so. It is simply powerful, and neither of you had known what you were doing at the time – you with a relic of the Seven and the sword with an inexperienced mortal handler. Since then, it’s never hurt you like that again, and you think you’ve sensed it holding back.

Harm nods, mollified, and resumes contemplating. “Were you always a squire? Like the ones in the City?”

Another shake of your head.

“You’re a southerner, too.” He doesn’t need to ask. “Did you live close to the Breach?”

You hesitate, then give a small nod.

“Close enough, then,” Harm says. “Did you join up when it opened?”

You smile at his acuity, knowing that he can feel it in the way your face moves under his hand, and nod again.

“And Gamma’s sword found its way to you,” Harm muses. He doesn’t press for more details; he stops, satisfied, and you can feel the finality of it in the way that he moves, shoulders settling. "Alright. I think I understand a little better now." Sightless eyes focus in your direction, face carved into earnestness. "Thank you for being open with me. It didn't upset you too much, did it?"

You shake your head, and Harm's hand wanders over your face again, searching for a lie. When he finds no evidence, he smiles, bright, and his hand returns to your cheek. He hesitates, then says, "Thank you for earlier, too. For catching me."

He doesn't have to thank you, but that isn't why he says it. The stumble in his voice is small, subtle, but you hear it anyway. You place a hand over his, pressing it closer to your face, then reach down the length of his arm and pull him in, careful not to jostle Vesper in the process. He leans in and lets you tuck him against your side, protective. The gesture is clear.

You half-expect him to apologize. He's been doing that a lot lately.

"You should probably watch where you put things," Harm mumbles instead, into your shoulder. "Though I appreciate your dastardly plan to have an excuse to rescue me from your clutter."

You smile broadly, though he can't feel it as well with your head resting on top of his, and vigorously nod assent. It's a learning process, just like this communication is, but the two of you will figure it out. You've managed so far, after all. You bury your head against him a little more, a silent apology.

Vesper chooses that slight movement as a wake-up call. She stirs, blinks up at you and Harm sleepily, and immediately wants in on the action. Her imperious voice, babble with a little bit of coherency thrown in, demands her place, and Harm chuckles. After a few moments of maneuvering, you deliver Vesper into Harm's arms, though you don't move much - Vesper makes it very clear that she wants to be in the middle of things.

The house is somewhat behind schedule, and half the day has been wasted on chasing Vesper around and talking. But as you stretch the tingling arm that Vesper had nested on and watch as Harm listens very seriously to Vesper's chatter, you find that you don't mind. You can put up with the Shining City for a little longer.


End file.
